Cigarettes & Smoke
by Keithan
Summary: 2. How does a perfect soldier break away from a life of fighting and war to live in a time of peace?
1. 1

**Title:** _Cigarettes & Smoke  
_**Author:** Keithan**  
Disclaimers:** Gundam Wing and its characters belong to their respective owners.**  
Rating:** PG**  
Series: **_Cigarettes & Smoke_ is a series of unrelated short fics that deal with the common theme of cigarettes and smoke.**  
Characters:** 1/4**  
Summary****: **He watches the smoke disappear into nothingness.  
**Warnings: **Writing practice, in a way. **  
Notes: **I planned to write less than 500-word unrelated ficlets or drabbles with the common theme of cigarettes and smoke, but the first ficlet apparently didn't get the notice of less than 500 words and went on to settle for less than 1k words instead. I plan to write more short pieces on the theme though. It would be a nice writing exercise. But before that, here's the first fic that very nearly went over the 1k mark. Had to let this one go before it is trapped in the black hole that is the writing process, that never-ending cycle of writing and editing.

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**Cigarettes & Smoke  
**_by Keithan_

**1.**

He watches the smoke go up, with its tendrils reaching out to the glass pane of the window, before raising his hand to wave it away. It disperses in front of him, the white puff of cloud thinning out before completely disappearing--only to be replaced again as he blows out smoke, a soft whisper of air past his lips. He doesn't move for a moment, eyes once more following the white curls rising up, but then he waves a hand at it again. And as fleeting and as intangible as it is, it is gone the next second, some slipping out of the half-opened window.

He hears the door open, and his eyes immediately change focus from the view outside, and the now invisible smoke, to the reflective glass. He sees Heero looking at him, and the frown on the other pilot's face is the most distinguished expression he thinks he has ever seen on Heero's features.

"Heero." He turns around and leans back. The cigarette he's holding dangles precariously between his fingers as his hands come to rest on the sill behind him. "You're back."

Heero doesn't move, only inclines his head, carefully, slowly, eyes shifting down to his hand--to the cigarette--for a quick glance, as if making sure. "Where did you get that?"

He raises a brow, raises his right hand up, and looks at the cigarette as though he didn't even notice it was there. "Oh this," he says, and lifts his shoulder in a shrug. "Some of the girls managed to sneak in some. I confiscated the whole box, of course." He smiles, gentle and sweet, but he sees Heero's frown deepen more.

"Quatre--"

"Don't worry." He waves a hand, the right hand with the cigarette--the smoke curls, the smile drops. His grace with the white stick surprises even himself. "I just tried it." He turns his back to Heero, going back to the view outside--of the night sky, of the distant stars, of invisible smoke.

He hears Heero's footsteps, sees in the reflection that the other pilot is walking to him. Their eyes meet, a reflection looking at another reflection.

"It's cold here," he says, when he feels a gust of cold wind enter from the window. "All the time. So unlike the desert during the day." He reaches out to close the window, but he remembers the smoke and lets his hand drop back to his side.

"It's been weeks." Heero stops just behind him, close enough for the other to see the sudden falter in his fingers, unaccustomed to holding a cigarette in between, but graceful enough to be able to adapt.

"Are you planning to leave already?" He steadies his hand and looks at the cravat at Heero's neck, already a bit loosened but still presentable. "It's okay. I'm glad you stayed, even for a little while."

He sees Heero's forehead crease once more, slight but noticeable. "That's not what I meant."

"I know." He smiles again, this time, faint and weak, a mere curving of the corners of his lips. "Is he alive, I wonder." And he lifts the cigarette to his lips, inhaling in deep--smoke and guilt and regret. He doesn't cough, doesn't spit out the unusual taste.

He looks at the cigarette between his fingers, the whiteness not far from his pale skin. It would have contrasted with his sun-burnt hands not too long ago though, when he was in the browns and golds and tans of the desert--his first sun burn and the desert has claimed his heart since.

He exhales the smoke out, watches as it obscures his hand--white smoke and pale skin. "It's not so bad, once you get used to it."

A hand encircles his wrist, and he sees the contrast he is looking for there. Against his skin, Heero's skin is darker. Bronze, he would call it, and he thinks that bronze is not far from the tans and golds and browns of the desert. He turns, looking up, and meets blue then--he thinks not of the sky, but rather the sea, the deep, deep blue sea.

"Don't." Heero says as the other pulls his wrist--pulls him closer--and he takes a step forward.

He watches as Heero, without letting go of his wrist, reaches for the cigarette with his other hand, removes it from between his fingers and settles it between his own lips, inhaling in deep--and he wonders if Heero inhales the same smoke, the same guilt, the same regret.

Heero then looks away, looks down at the table by the window and sees the made-up ash tray there. He follows Heero's movements as the other pilot, with a twist of his wrist, lets the ash fall away, before flicking his fingers to send the cigarette sailing past the glass pane and out the open space of the window. He thinks of Heero's grace with it--thinks if the perfect soldier has ever smoked before--as he follows the point of orange glow and watches it as it fades away into the darkness, until it's not there anymore--invisible, like the smoke that Heero has blown past his lips, with his head turned away, will become.

He looks back at Heero--and swims in the deep, deep blue sea--and sees the remnants of smoke thinning out in the space between them. He tilts his head, studying the other's face. "Don't what, Heero?"

He wonders if Heero meant the smoke, or the guilt, or the regret, or perhaps he meant it all. He wonders if it even matters, as Heero pulls his wrist again--pulls him closer--and he takes another step forward, into the circle of bronze and the warmth of the desert. He closes his eyes, and the smoke--the invisible smoke--fades away.

**18.07.09**


	2. 2

_Cigarettes & Smoke_ is a series of unrelated short fics that deal with the common theme of cigarettes and smoke.

[ How does a perfect soldier break away from a life of fighting and war to live in a time of peace? | ~1, 100 words | 4/1 ]

**Notes:** I personally love the first fic in this series. Hopefully, this doesn't disappoint.

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**2.**

He raises a hand, signals one of the bartender closest to him. He doesn't speak, but a small nod to his drink is enough, and soon after, a glass is placed in front of him with a soft thud. He watches the liquid inside swirl in movement, dangerously coming close to the mouth. He almost pushes it when not a drop spills.

He doesn't remember what it is. It's his fourth—no, sixth, or eighth, or maybe tenth? He doesn't even remember that. At the back of his mind, he knows he should, because he remembers and notices the small little things, the seemingly insignificant details—the weight of his gun on his hand and the number of bullets left, the slightest movement behind him, the usually indiscernible shift in the shadows. He thinks it's because he doesn't really care. After all, his life now doesn't depend on what he's drinking, or on how many he's had.

He looks down in front of him, at the ashtray he's using, and he sees his cigarette with a faint, dying glow. He leaves it—untouched after his one initial drag—watching its ashes crumble and fall, leaving spots of black on the white ashtray. He frowns.

He reaches for his glass and lifts it to his lips, eyes still on the small pile of ashes and the spots here and there—he remembers the smoke, thick and black and suffocating, and the black soot and ashes falling from the sky above him as Wing Zero self-destructs, leaving him with nothing to go back to. His hand tightens on his glass and he already tastes the bitterness even before the liquid passes his lips. When he drinks, he concentrates more on the burning in his throat. He thinks he might be drunk. He's not sure—he's never been.

The lights on the bar are dim, but he wants to close his eyes to the neon lights on the dance floor behind him, reflected on the many bottles on the shelves—glinting red and green and yellow and blue—and when the bass thrums loudly in his ears, he wants to block out the sound. He tries not to think of the bright white light of something going up in flames, and the loud boom that follows it, tries harder not to think of the ones he had caused—and the lives that were lost because of it.

It was war—he had no other choice.

He tries not to care—about the neon lights and the loud bass—and he fingers the cigarette, making the length of ash fall away. In the darkness of his corner, with the company of smoke and the smell of alcohol too close, he forgets why he's even there. He doesn't think of the fact that he doesn't really have anywhere else to go.

He hasn't been there long, a few hours at most, and nobody has dared to bother him. But when somebody does, he is instantly alert and his hand shoots out just beside his face—he wonders if he will ever get drunk enough to get past war-honed reflexes—and grabs the thin, pale wrist trying to reach out in front of him to his cigarette. He turns a glare to his side, but when he sees the one standing there, he blinks and immediately loosens his tight grip. Other men would have cried out in pain, but Quatre merely shifts his eyes to the hand holding his wrist, before meeting his gaze again with a soft smile. The gratitude is not lost on him and he drops Quatre's wrist at once.

He looks away, glares at his glass and at the ashtray. When they don't give him answers, he reaches for his dying cigarette and lifts it to his lips, breathing life into it again. The tip glows orange, the white paper burning and turning into ash. He blows the smoke slowly, as if trying to cover the sigh he wants to let out. It curls in front of him, the smoke, slowly going up into the dim, neon-filled darkness. He frowns in distaste.

He opens his mouth, to ask one of the many questions running in his mind, but he is never good with words, and he thinks maybe he is drunk enough to even try, so he slips the cigarette between his lips instead and stays silent.

"They're looking for you."

He frowns and he feels the cigarette between his lips, feels the need to inhale the foul-tasting smoke. He does.

"And you're not?" The words slip past his lips and he thinks he must be drunker than he thought if his tongue is so loose. He takes the cigarette in his fingers and flicks the ash on the white ashtray.

"I didn't know you smoke."

He wonders how Quatre found him, or if he was even looking at all. He doesn't believe in chance though—after living through two wars and a childhood like his, there's no such thing. But the war has ended, he reminds himself. Maybe in peace, he thinks, there exist chances—and choices—after all.

He looks at Quatre, then back at the cigarette he's holding. He grounds it in the white ashtray. "I don't."

When Quatre smiles, he forgets the neon lights reflected on the bottles—glinting red and green and yellow and blue—and when Quatre says, "Come on," the sound of the bass becomes a distant hum in his ears.

He feels Quatre's hand on his wrist, gently pulling him up and away from the bar. He stands up, turning his back to the counter and the ash-covered white ashtray and the empty glasses on it. Quatre lets go.

"Come on," Quatre says again. "I'll take you home."

"I don't have a home," he answers without thinking. Alcohol, he thinks, is not for him.

Quatre digs a hand into his pocket, and when he takes it out, he drops the money in it on the bar. "Then you can have mine, for as long as you need it," he says, before holding out his hand.

He doesn't know what makes him lift his hand to take Quatre's own, doesn't know why he feels it's all right and safe. Maybe he is really drunk, after all, or maybe because it's a choice—the first one given to him since the wars ended. He knows it doesn't really matter, because Quatre doesn't say anything—he only tightens his hold and doesn't let go. Maybe, he thinks as he lets himself be led to the exit, he shouldn't, either.

Silence and darkness greet them outside, and for the first time in a long while, he thinks he's finally starting to feel at peace.

**15.11.09**

Feedback would be lovely. Thank you for reading!


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